“A
lady’s gone mad in that house,” she told me, and it would not have occurred to
me to doubt her. “She has money in the
mattress. Now she won’t get out of bed,
in case someone takes it from her.”
“How
do you know?”
She shrugged. “Once you’ve been
around for a bit, you get to know stuff.”
I
kicked a stone. “By ‘a bit’ do you mean
‘a really long time’?”
She nodded.
“How old are you, really?” I asked.
“Eleven.”
I
thought for a bit. Then I asked, “How
long have you been eleven for?”
She smiled at me.
(from The Ocean at
the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman)
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